The Old Man
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Illya contemplates the passing of Alexander Waverly.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: This piece is dedicated to Gordon B. Hinckley, 1910-2008.

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Illya Kuryakin sighed and sipped his drink, watching the nighttime strollers pass by the window of the small café…strangely colored under the neon lights of downtown New York. 

Traffic was fairly mild…the evening was unusually calm…but other than that it was a very ordinary day indeed. It seemed wrong, inappropriate. So many of these people here and across the world, the young couple who held hands and leant on each other, the old man sitting at a small table across the room, the small child he could hear whining to its mother over a desired ice cream cone…even the cab driver who sat outside in his care waiting boredly for fair…every single one of these people owed their lives to him…and they did not even know he existed.

He was gone and the world that owed him so much did not mourn or show any sign of change…it seemed so very wrong.

Few knew of the Mr. Waverly's sense of humor…but it existed…the Russian had seen it…seen the twinkle in his eye as he berated Mr. Solo on some of his more distasteful habits…heard the tone of amusement in his voice during numerous reports and briefings at headquarters.

True Mr. Waverly was reserved and upright…but he was far from cold. He cared for his agents…cared for UNCLE and the ideals it had strived to protect.

It was perhaps necessary for him to appear disinterested…aloof…separate…He was after all the backbone of UNCLE. The icon, the tradition, the pomp and circumstance…the most respected man in all international circles.

It had been sudden and painless…the inescapable fate of old men…dying in his bed…in his sleep. A rather unglorious death for a man who had spent over 20 years as a field agent and a further 35 behind the workings of UNCLE…8 years as its greatest and most prestigious head yet.

A very ignominious end indeed for a man who looked death in the face numerous times, had faced seemingly unbeatable odds and led his men easily around them…a man who tutted disapprovingly at every obstacle and refused to accept impossible as an existing condition.

No doubt a grand ceremony would be held on the morrow…within his own circles of course…he would be celebrated and remembered by numerous other unkown heads and authorities. He would be professionally mourned and honored by his associates.

Such practices had always seemed rather hollow to Kuryakin…though he imagined Waverly would have taken great delight in it…just like the day he had risked his life to give a speech at that blasted university the stubborn traditionalist.

Well…let them celebrate in their own way…Illya would far rather remember him as he had been, old, grumpy, with a that distinct twinkle in his eye, and that infuriating pipe sticking out of his mouth spreading nauseous smoke throughout the conference room…and his rare words of 'well done' which his field agents treasured as highly as gold.

Still…it was not enough…Waverly was not just the head…he was more like UNCLE itself…rather like a father. Thus the affectionate nickname of the 'old man'.

It was unthinkable that now he would have to report to someone else, that he would never again be subject to a disapproving bushy-browed glare or hear the dry, sardonic voice over his communicator.

And now as he looked out the window at the peaceful unchanged world he felt a cold despairing anger…he should not pass so unnoticed…he had to do something…but how best to commemorate such a man.

As if in answer his pen began to beep… and he reached automatically for it.

"Kuryakin here…"

"Illya…where are you?…the new head's arriving tomorrow…THRUSH is having a field day…and I'm up to my eyebrows over here…"

Kuryakin snorted. "Having a bit of trouble holding down the fort Napoleon?"

"Hardly you sneaky little Russian…but we have an image to maintain and just because the Old Man's gone dosen't mean you can sneak out the back window to play hookey…shame on you...what would Waverly say?"

"If you don't need me than I might just go to bed…I want to be rested for the ceremony tomorrow…You wouldn't want a sleep-deprived agent to drop the casket would you?'

"Illya…"

"Fine…but I expect you to overcompensate so that it dosen't tilt."

"I'll have to anyway considering your height. And be careful…like I said, Thrush is having a field day."

The transmission shut off. Illya pocketed the pen and rose, leaving a few dollars on the table.

He donned his coat against the cold winter air and went to intercept the taxi he had seen earlier…

Napoleon was right…he thought as the driver pulled a gun on him and he disarmed the man smoothly. Thrush was having a field day.

He slung the unconscious goon into the back and started up the vehicle making his way to Del Floria's

Perhaps, there was a way to commemorate Waverly after all…and how better than to maintain the organization that had been the Old Man's pet project and life's work for so long?

_Do stop dilly-dallying Mr. Kuryakin…there is work to be done._

Illya Kuryakin smiled to himself…yes there was…and thanks to Alexander Waverly…he knew just how to do it.

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End file.
